A Lost Cause
by driftingpurpose
Summary: A short drabble on one night that changed everything. Cinderella


"You shouldn't be here."

His disgruntled murmur was met with the shattering of glass and a startled gasp. The golden haired girl who had been leaning on the balustrade, turned towards the gardens, was now looking at him, her chin slightly tucked in, her shoulders hunched, and her eyes, wide open and piercingly blue. She was a devastating beauty and Barthol couldn't stop himself from following the pink blush as it diffused from her pale cheeks down her slender neck to finally dip beneath her collarbone to the safety of soft blue silk. Silk that did nothing to hide the quivering breast beneath it. Barthol quickly glanced back up, this time to a well defined point beyond her left ear.

"I apologize my Lady. I did not mean to alarm you. This area is off-limits to the guests. Allow me to escort you back downstairs and – " he trailed off as the nervous wringing of her hands below brought his attention to the sizeable stain right above her skirt that seemed to darken by the second. At her feet were the remains of a crystal wineglass, catching the dim rays of the room and vibrantly throwing them off in a mocking display of sparkling color. How could he have forgotten? The gown and glass alone would take years to pay off, let alone the debt owed for causing the discomfort of a noble. No beauty was worth this.

"I– I am ter- terribly sorry. Please forgive me, I'll leave immediately," she shakily breathed out, bending down to the floor, her hand reaching out to the jagged shards with easy resolve.

"My lady! Please don't!" Barthol all but flung himself at her feet to intercede her hand. Spilt blood would surely mean his end.

Their fingers brushed and her hand jerked back to be clutched protectively at her breast.

"You look like my father," the lady blurted, her eyes immediately darting down to the floor and that dratted blush blooming again.

If her father was a man of 50 years with a weathered and carefully forgettable face framed by dark waves and a watchmen's hat, then yes, he supposed he looked like her father. What an odd and skittish little bird this was. Bathol didn't know what she wanted him to say, so he busied himself with picking up the broken shards.

"I don't want to marry him, you know."

He jerked his head up to see her crouching with her legs bent and drawn together, two bare arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the mess of crystal still lying on the marble tiles.

"I don't. I don't. Oh how I wish I did. If only I did!" The conviction she cried out with seemed to surprise her as much as it did he. He watched as a shadow of fear and regret stole through her eyes and made them glisten.

"Why- why not?" As much as her timid blue eyes reminded him of the blind mewling pups his hound had just birthed, Barthol desperately wanted to run as far away as possible, leaving her alone to her tears and troubles if need be.

"I don't know," she mumbled miserably. There was a stretch of silence that Barthol did not know how to end.

"Did you know, the prettier the dress, the harder it is to breathe," she continued, somewhat wistfully. Barthol couldn't help but glance at the soft blue corset that he knew his daughters would do anything short of murder to wear.

"It seems to me, my Lady, if you don't mind my saying so, that your efforts do not go unnoticed."

Blue eyes met his in surprise, and a hint of a smile threatened to turn her full coral lips.

"And do you believe in love, master watchmen?" she said, almost teasingly. But there was no hiding the tremor that arrested her hands and spread to trouble her small shoulders. Did he know it to exist? Yes. Did he believe in it? The long years spent observing his fellow men and women, witnessing love's never ending vulnerabilities, its short life, and living with the relentless hunger of poverty told him no. Barthol looked at her, a songbird with wings too delicate to fly and eyes that angrily demanded to know why, and said to her what he would undoubtedly say to his own daughters one day.

"No."

A sigh stole her breath and her tremors tampered off, her body slumping in exhausted relief, just for a second, before it straightened with understanding. It was like watching a dying flower releasing its stubborn hold on its last, dry petal, standing up taller afterwards, bare yet lighter.

"Okay." And with that, she stood up and smoothed her skirt. He tried not to notice the solitary spot of ruined silk on a rigid torso, just a couple of inches below a radiant smile.

As she walked away, the sparkle of color flashing near the tiles had his eyes darting to the bottom of the back of her skirt, searching for a possibly disastrous forgotten shard of crystal clinging to the soft blue silk. He need not have worried though. With each step forward, he could just barely make out the heels of curiously glass shoes.


End file.
